


Rebirth

by evieplease



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Airplane meeting, F/M, Lawyers, NSFW, Road Trips, diverted plane, fiance fucking friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieplease/pseuds/evieplease
Summary: Renny finds her fiancé fucking her friend in her bed, throws over her fiancé, her friend, her job, her life in London to go home to San Diego, where someone loves her best of all. And meets her wet dream on the plane. The plane is diverted to Denver, and the two embark on a road trip of discovery.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

I let myself into the flat, sliding my shoulder bag and the satchel with my laptop onto the parquet floor with a small thump. My shoes were next, the torturous four inch heels that had been killing my feet, no doubt souring my mood all afternoon, landed with their own separate thumps. I dropped my keys on the entry table wincing at the sharp clatter, and pulled the clip and pins holding my hair up in it’s prissy, lawyerly chignon, tossing them carelessly next to my keys and scrubbing at my aching scalp.

Ugh. What a day. I swear, if that woman had tried to add one more stupid clause to the McFerrrin merger agreement, I would have completely lost my shit…

Continuing to scratch at my scalp and finger through my hair, I wandered across the bright, sunlit space to the kitchen area and poured myself a tumbler of citroen vodka over ice. I stood sipping it, looking out the floor to ceiling windows, and letting the warmth of the golden, early evening sun slide over my skin. Today was just about the only time in two weeks that I had seen daylight since starting on that damn contract...

I sipped my drink as I idly looked around our place. The flat is far too modern for my tastes, with it’s open plan, high, echoing ceilings and stainless steel floating staircase that freaks me out every time I use it. I hate the red and black, angular leather, modern furniture too. But Jean Claude likes it, and Jean Claude always gets what Jean Claude wants, usually by charm, sometimes by tantrum.

I do like the floor to ceiling windows in the kitchen that let in so much sunshine on our few sunny afternoons. Unfortunately, I don’t often get to spend time in the flat on said sunny days, because I’m working downtown at the fancy-ass law firm six days a week. Today I had lucked out that my opposite number had cracked a molar while clenching her teeth at the fact that I was smart enough to counter her bullshit, and she had left early to see an oral surgeon. If she weren’t such a complete pill I might have given a toss. Instead, I was just glad to escape early, and sod her! God, I was tired.

Why I let my mother talk me into taking a law degree… I shrugged that thought away yet again as unproductive. If I’m unhappy and unfulfilled it’s my own damn fault. If I had been a real artist, I wouldn’t have been diverted so easily by Mom and her determination that I get a law degree and an ‘important’ job, preferably one that paid tons of money. So here I am, a la-di-da, fancy-pants, highly paid Corporate Lawyer in the City. And I’d rather be nearly anywhere else, doing nearly anything else.

Apart from my job though, I guess I’m content with my life. Content-ish. I do like London. And I have a French fiancé who looks like a slightly shorter version of Antonio Banderas in his younger days. I like him too, most days. Though I haven’t seen much of him over the last two weeks. 

I think he’s sulking. We work at the same firm, and he was competing with me for the McFerrin account lead. He could have it, for all of me! But the boss gave it to me, so I’m stuck and Jean Claude is pouting. I huffed exasperation.

I slammed down the rest of my vodka at that thought and quickly poured another, ignoring the voice trying to tell me that I can’t drown my unhappiness in alcohol. Picking up my drink and sipping, I made my way up the stairs, keeping well away from the floating edge, intent on a shower to wash away the days’ myriad, bloody irritations.

It wasn’t until I topped the stairs and neared the bedroom door that I realized that something was amiss. What was that noise?

Pushing the bedroom door open, I stood utterly transfixed in the doorway, watching Jean Claude’s perfect ass pumping and flexing into some woman, her ankles wrapped around his hips and vigorously fucking herself onto my fiancés’ cock. He was making those delicious noises, the ones that he makes right before he comes, the ones just for me.

Our bed. My bed. He was in MY BED, doing some other woman! The breath that had left me came back in a rush, and without thought, the hand holding my tumbler of vodka lifted and launched at Jean Claude’s perfect ass as I screamed my outrage.

“Fucking hell! You bastard! I my bed?! You couldn’t take your slut elsewhere?? God damn you!”

The glass hit his ass with a solid thump, spraying the remains of lemon scented vodka and ice over his back, in tandem with my scream, startling him into rearing back with a shout and wrenching around toward me, giving me a good look at his bed partner for the first time. All the air went out of me again and a sick feeling grabbed my heart, squeezing…

Marian. My friend, Marian.

I thought I might vomit, my hand going to my middle as I stared at them. Of all the women Jean Claude could have… Of all the men she could have… I had to leave. I knew the red haze of murderous rage that coated my vision would lead me to a world of hurt and two dead assholes if I didn’t get out. Right now.

I bolted and plunged down the stairs, mindlessly running from the knowledge of betrayal and the pain, desperate to get away. Go, go, go! Nonononono, repeating in my head as I plunged down the stairs. I missed the last step, slamming to my hands and knees on the harsh concrete flooring with a shriek of more than physical pain.

After the blinding pain receded enough to focus, I scrambled upright and dashed into the entry, thrusting my feet back into my damn heels, yanking the drawer out of the little entry table and scrabbling around for my passport at the back.

I snatched up the bags I had dumped in the entry not an half an hour before.

My body was on some weird sort of autopilot, moving me out and away from the inferno my life had suddenly become. I found myself on the pavement, walking rapidly away from my friend, away from my fiancé, away from my home, my job, my life. I was done. So. Fucking. Done.

I called for a taxi, and waited in front of the bank around the corner, staring blankly into space until it arrived. I climbed in and asked to go to the airport. The driver kept asking if I was alright, love? 

But I wasn’t. I shook my head and ignored him.

I just didn’t understand! How could Marian, of all people…? We’d been friends for the last two years. I thought. She was the first person to befriend me in London when I’d moved from the States to start my new job.

She worked at the same firm, and had been told off to get me kitted properly, taken me out shopping for a wardrobe full of grey pencil skirts, white blouses and sky high heels that are apparently the necessary costume for a Professional Woman in the City. She’d helped me settle into my new life in London, laughing and teasing me for my American ways, helping me find my way around, sharing the miseries of being a single girl in the City and learning to laugh about it. 

Not once did it ever occur to me that she would… FUCK. MY. FIANCÉ!

The taxi driver dropped me at International Departures, and I dragged myself into the airport, craning my neck to find the ticketing desks. I marched myself over to a free agent and asked the woman for a ticket on the next flight to LA, and what time it went. 

The woman looked me up and down for just a moment and then leaned over the counter a bit, glancing around to see that we weren’t attracting attention.

“Honey, you look kinda rough. You ok?” She asked in a low, concerned American accent, her dark eyes warm and kind. Her name tag said Letitia Jackson.

I sighed and propped my elbow on the counter top, leaning close. I didn’t have many more fucks to give.

“Letitia, the bastard was fucking my best friend in my bed when I got home from work an hour ago. So…no, I’m not ok. But I will be. Fuck this noise, I’m going home.” I finished up with a firm nod.

“Yeah, you go girl. But here’s the thing. You’ll set off all of TSA’s bells if you show up at security looking like that, honey. You go get yourself cleaned up, now. Come back and we’ll get you a ticket, ok?

“Bless you.” I turned tiredly and went to find the nearest women’s room. I stood and stared at myself in the full length mirror at an unrecognizable version of me. Jeez, no wonder the woman wanted me to look less crazed before she sold me a plane ticket!

My hair was in wild disarray from scrubbing my hand through it. My mascara and eyeliner was streaked under my eyes in black tear tracks. My eyes were red and swollen, lipstick chewed off, white blouse half untucked from my crooked navy pencil skirt, and my tights were laddered over my knees where I’d fallen on them.

I wished passionately for my soft old jeans, a tee shirt and my favorite warm blue cardi. But there was no help for it, all I had were the clothes I stood up in, and the contents of my purse and satchel.

First I scrubbed off my makeup at the sink with a couple of the towelettes that I keep in my work bag for makeup malfunctions at work. Then I wetted a couple of paper towels with cold water and pressed them over my eyes for several minutes to diminish the evidence of tears.

Surveying the results, I saw a pale, dark haired woman with tired blue eyes and age inappropriate frackles scattered across her nose. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out in public without my freckles covered.

Stepping out of my heels, I stripped off my ruined pantyhose and tossed them into the bin. No, into the trash. I’d better start brushing off my American English if I’m going home.

I dug out my hairbrush and found a hair tie in the bottom of my purse, and brushed out the tangled mess on my head, pulling it into a neat French braid and tying it off securely.

I straightened my skirt and tucked my blouse neatly into the waistband of my skirt. Carefully smoothing on a fresh layer of Don’t Fuck With Me red lipstick, I stepped back and checked the mirror a final time, brushing at a wrinkle in my skirt.

I still looked unfinished, but at least I no longer looked like the crazed bag lady terrorist of moments ago. TSA might let me through security unmolested. I pushed my feet groaningly back into my ridiculous heels- the outrageously expensive, painfully high, red soled shoes that Marian had cajoled and bullied me into buying. Those damn things were going into the trash at my first opportunity, red soles and all!

Taking a deep breath and firming my mouth, I put my corporate lawyer face back on and walked confidently back to my Ticket agent/angel, Letitia.

She looked up with a smile for me when it was my turn to step up to the counter, this round, motherly woman with her fancy, complicated, braided updo, and warm dark eyes in an expertly made up mahogany face. She had the best eyebrows I’d ever seen...

“There you are, girl.” She looked at me approvingly. “You’ll do, now. Let’s get you ticketed!”

Thank god there were still a couple of seats left on the next flight to LAX. She was a wizard, and whisked me through the rigamarole of international travel questions and had me ready to go in minutes, with almost two hours before my flight. She wished me luck, and I offered her my hand, squeezing hers in gratitude for her kindness. 

Why is the kindness of strangers so often kinder than those who supposedly care for you?

I was stalking through the concourse after the strain of keeping it together for TS fucking A, when I became aware of a man pacing me on the long trek to the gates. I glanced aside, and up.

“Oh fuck my life!” I growled, rolling my eyes at the man striding along to my left, pulling a roller bag and hitching his shoulder bag up. He glanced at me, dark hair swinging, a corner of his mouth twitching up as I slowed, letting him pass, watching dat ass stride away.

I sighed and continued my trek. My once ever chance to meet the man and I couldn’t be arsed. …give a fuck! Christ, how long is it going to take to get rid of all these British-isms and remember how to speak ‘American’? I just didn’t have any fucks left to give. I was tired and I wanted to go home. I just don’t know where home is anymore...

Which reminded me. I walked into one of the many overpriced shops on the concourse, paying far too much (and I would have paid more!) for a pair of black yoga pants, a black tee shirt with the London Eye on it, and an oversized navy blue hoodie. And wonder of wonders, they also offered simple black ballet flats, and had a pair in my size. I nearly whooped for joy, barely managing to stifle myself.

It would be just my shit luck to draw security’s attention and get myself booted out. But that didn’t stop me from making my purchases and walking out to find the nearest trash can and proclaiming quietly but sincerely, “As god is my witless, I will never wear fashionably crippling high heels again!” I took the damn things off and dumped them in the receptacle with no further ceremony, and slid my feet happily into my new flats. Bliss.

I found the ladies room and changed into my yoga pants, tee shirt and hoodie, had a pee, and went out to wash my hands while I pondered what someone would think, finding my good skirt and blouse in the restroom, but no woman inside them. Eh, fuckit.

I went into another couple of shops, picking up a bottle of water, some paracetamol, lip balm, a neck pillow, and a small kit of toiletries. 

I arrived at my gate and glanced around for an empty seat. Nada. So I found a bit of free space on the floor against the huge windows looking out onto the tarmac, sitting, and resolutely turning my back on the spectacular sunset beyond the glass. No fucks left to give, remember?

I leaned my head back against the window and wrapped my arms around my knees, drawing a deep breath. Or trying to. There was something very large lodged in the middle of my chest, and it just wouldn’t stop aching.

I sat up and grabbed my laptop, opening it and setting it on my crossed legs, my fingers ready on the keyboard, staring blankly at the screen and doing fuck all. I’d got it out because I thought I had better start a to-do list of all the things that I needed to do to clean up the mess I’d just impulsively made of my life.

Like send in my resignation to the firm. Turn over the contract negotiations on the McFerrin account to someone.

I hope Jean Claude doesn’t get it, because yes, I am a vindictive bitch. But Jean Claude is officially no longer my problem. Fuck the McFerrin Merger and fuck him.

My mind drifted off, the sight of them fucking in my bed flashing before my eyes. I don’t really know how long I sat, staring into space at the horrors etched into the insides of my eyelids.

I was jerked from my self pity by the sound of my name over the loud speaker, requesting me to check in with the gate agent.

Christ, what in the world could go wrong now??

Stuffing my computer into my satchel, I scrambled up from the floor and made my way over to the agent and introduced myself.

“Good evening, Miss. may I see your ticket please?” She extended a bright smile and a gorgeously manicured hand.

“Um, sure? Is there a problem?” I scrabbled in my bag for my ticket print out. If there’s a problem I’m just going to lose my shit, was beating a pulse behind my breastbone as I pawed through my bag. 

At last I pulled it free and handed it over, my trembling hand making the paper flutter.

She smiled kindly at me.

“Nothing at all wrong, Miss. You’ve been upgraded to first class. Seat 4A.” She handed me a new print out with my new seat assignment. “Have a nice flight.”

“But, but I didn’t, I mean—“

“Not to worry. My friend Letitia at the ticket counter said to tell you, “You go girl!” She smiled conspiratorially at me.

“Now, I really must call the flight and get the pre-boarding instructions started. You go on over there and wait. You’re first on.”

I teared up and reached for her hand. “You rock! And so does Letitia. Thank you both, so, so much! You’ll tell her?”

“Of course. You have a good flight now.” She reached for her microphone with a wink, and I went and stood where she told me, my ticket and passport in hand.

I couldn’t believe that had happened. I was kind of in a daze walking down the jetway and entering the airplane, being greeted by a smiling man with gorgeous silver hair, a blinding white shirt, matching blue trousers and trim waistcoat, and sturdy shoes, telling me his name was Andrew.

He offered to carry my satchel and escorted me to my seat. It was one of those long haul, transatlantic type planes, the ones with the strange sleeping pods in first class. It was weirdly sci-fi.

Smiling Andrew left me to get situated, going back to the door to greet the other passengers.

Boarding the Plane:  
(he looks like Loki + sir Thomas )

I was so dazed that I stowed my stuff and sat, buckling my seatbelt, and I didn’t even play with the gizmos in the pod to figure out what they were. I turned toward the window and stared out, blindly watching the small figures and the ground scurrying busily around, prepping the plane for takeoff, and utterly ignoring everything going on around me.

I was vaguely aware that people were boarding, shuffling down the aisle, and that someone was settling in the aisle pod next to me, but I ignored it all, firmly turning my shoulder and telegraphing ‘not interested’ as I stared out the window.

Eventually the people on the ground and the baggage carts all trundled away and I became vaguely aware that the atmosphere around me had changed, the noises of people opening overhead bins and the clinking of seatbelts gradually diminishing.

The main door closed with a thunk. Thank god. I could hardly wait to shake the English soil from my feet and go the fuck home.

What is that line from that old song? ‘Rejected, dejected and subjected’? That’s me. What the hell is it about me that the people who said they love me could so easily betray me?

I snorted at my self pity. It’s them, not me, dammit! I know that. But then, it begs the question, why do I keep choosing people who will eventually hurt me? I mean, am I that bad a judge of character?

Evidence would suggest that I am. I stared and stared out the window wearily. I want to go home.

But I don’t have a home anymore, do I? When I left for London, Mom sold the house that she’d raised me in, the little earthquake cottage that I’d lived in all my life. She said that she’d done her job, and now it was her turn. 

Apparently, ‘her turn’ is traveling around the world on big cruise ships with a friend. She’s somewhere in the Pacific now, I think. Perhaps Fiji. And whatever is left of the possessions that I’d left at home are in a storage unit somewhere in Modesto.

So, here I am, flying home to a home that is no longer mine. I drew in a shaking breath and squeezed my eyes, holding in tears of pure misery and self-pity. 

“God, is it so wrong to want to be where someone loves me best of all..?”

“No, love. It’s what we all want isn’t it? To be loved best of all?” said a honeyed, sympathetic voice, and a warm, long fingered hand settled gently over mine and squeezed.

Christ, I had said that out loud?

I turned, prepared to snap at the stranger intruding on my surly privacy.

Long, tall body, grey booted feet. Slightly freckled, pale English skin over corded, lightly furred forearms. Black jeans and a grey-blue tee shirt. Long dark hair swinging forward as he tilted his head to look at me. Furrowed brow, concerned mouth, and utterly arresting, compassionate blue eyes.

My hand flew to my mouth, but not enough to muffle my “Ohh, fuuuck meee.”

The head went back and the famous Hiddleston laugh rang out.

“Ehehehe! Sorry, darling. The Mile High Club flies a different route this season.”

My mouth fell open and I gaped at the man, hardly believing that he was sitting next to me. In the flesh. Making jokes.

I was saved by Andrew the Flight Attendant offering me a pre-takeoff drink, leaning over to place a couple of cocktail napkins on the extra wide arm rest between me and, um, Himself. I tore my eyes away, looking up at Andrew with eyes stretched so wide I could feel it.

Probably he could tell that I really could use a stiff drink. What the hell, maybe it would help me sleep the whole flight so I won’t have to talk to the man sitting next to me and embarrass myself to literal death.

I cleared a rusty throat. “Yes, please. May I have a scotch, with ice? And a water back, please?”

I’d been…leaking tears at intervals over the last few hours, I should probably replace the fluids. And while scotch tastes like paint thinner, I knew it would put me to sleep. Or at least relax me enough that I probably wouldn’t scream and levitate, clutching the overhead, if the man spoke to me again.

Andrew smiled cheerfully at me. “The Good Stuff, coming right up, yes ma’am.”

The good stuff would be wasted on me, but whatever. I smiled vaguely at him.

He turned his attention to, um, Tom. “And you, sir?”

The man leaned forward and nodded at me with a wicked smile. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

I choked.

He’d reminded me of that line in When Harry Met Sally, after she’d faked an orgasm in the diner. What’s more, from the amused twinkle and the satisfied look on his face, he’d done it on purpose.

I had the distinct feeling that if I responded at all he’d take it as encouragement, and I wasn’t confident in my ability to cope civily with anyone at all, much less Loki. I could so easily lose my shit, and it would not be cool to lose it on innocent bystanders.

I turned my face back to the window and went back to ignoring the world until Andrew the Flight Attendant brought my scotch with a single ice cube, and a glass of water. I thanked the man with a smile.

I gave it a little stir with my finger and inelegantly stuck the digit in my mouth. The theory was that I give my tastebuds a chance to adjust to the taste before I got the whole mouthful, hoping to prevent myself gagging or coughing the whole lot right back out when I swallowed.

It almost worked. I should have taken a preparatory sip before slugging the whole thing down at once. But I’m a band-aid off fast kind of girl.

I did manage to keep it down without atomizing it through the cabin, but just barely. It was several seconds before the burn set in and I couldn’t hold back the gasping and the coughing.

I was bent forward in my set, my lungs apparently determined to turn themselves inside out, coughing raucously into my hand, trying to smother myself and die, when a handkerchief was thrust into my hand and a large hand thumped me on the back several times.

“Thanks,” I rasped. “Sorry. I promise I don’t have ebola or anything. Just an allergy to scotch. It makes my lungs try to escape my body.”

The man chuckled. “Why risk it then?” 

I shrugged. “If I get enough in I’ll fall sleep and be incapable of embarrassing myself further. It was worth a shot. Pun intended.” Yeah, the pun was intended to divert his attention…

He rolled his eyes and snorted in the universal reaction to a feeble pun. Cocking his head, he regarded me thoughtfully.

“Perhaps instead of trying to anaesthetise yourself all in one go, you should try several mixed drinks.” He turned and waved Andrew over. “A rum and coke for the lady.” He turned and looked at me. “With a twist of lime?” I nodded, dumbfounded. “And a twist of lime, please.”

It was all rather imperiously done, but Andrew was back with my rum and coke in a flash, and I was so grateful to have something to soothe my raw throat that I snatched it up and took a cautious swallow.Yes, that did feel better. So a second and a third followed.

After scrubbing my face one last time with his very no-longer-pristine handkerchief, I looked at it, looked at him, and back again at the handkerchief.

“Nope. It’s mine now.” I tucked it into the pocket of my hoodie. “You snooze, you lose.”

“Shouldn’t that be, ‘You sneeze, you lose’?”

I rocked my hand. “I didn’t sneeze in it, but it is full of my snot. Would you give a handkerchief of your snotty DNA to Loki? I mean, how stupid do I look?”

Tom blinked at me. He opened his mouth. Then he shut it. Opened it, and shut it again, shaking his head.

“I have nothing to say about that. Please, keep it as my gift to you!” He put his hand on his chest an gave a little mocking bow.

“Gee Mister, nobody has ever given me a snotty handkerchief before! Thanks! I’ll treasure it always!”

Tom threw his hands up, laughing. “Okay! You win!”

“Damn straight! I didn’t go to law school for nothin’ ya know!”

“I’m Tom” he said when he quit laughing.

He held his hand out and I laid mine in it automatically. He didn’t shake, just held my hand and waited for me to give him my name in return.

“Renny.”

“Nice to meet you.” I was captured by amused, friendly, very blue eyes.

“Renny? Is that short for something? Irene?” I re-possessed my hand, silently vowing never to wash that, either.

He turned fully toward me, nestling his shoulder into the back of his seat comfortably. He took another swallow of his scotch.

“No, not Irene…” I wrinkled my nose. I hardly ever tell people my real name, mostly because most Americans have no earthly idea how to pronounce it when spelled out. Renate. It’s pronounced Ren-ah-tah, not Ren-ate!

I sighed. I don’t know why I felt compelled to answer his question, except this is Loki, and who really knows what Loki could do if I refused? Plus also, Tom Freaking Hiddleston! If he asked, I’d probably give him my left ovary. He can’t have the right one, it already exploded about ten minutes ago.

“It’s Renate,” I said, resigned to my fate.

“Oh!” His eyes flew open excitedly. “That’s lovely! Did you know it means—“

“Reborn. Yeah.” I interrupted tiredly. “You’d think that being born once was enough, but no-ooo…”

“What’s wrong with being reborn? Doesn’t that mean you get to re-start your life? Perhaps with someone who loves you best of all?” He cocked his head. “Maybe you should embrace it. Your second life begins when you realize you only have one life to live.”

I stared at him with my mouth hanging very attractively open. What is he- psychic?

“What are you— psychic?”

He shrugged diffidently. “Nope. Just putting your desire to be ‘where someone loves you best of all’, together with your name, and wondering what happened to upset you. I get the impression you’re running away from home. You obviously don’t have to answer, but curiosity is my besetting sin. So if you want to tell me about it…”

“Christ, you don’t want to know!” I covered half my face with my hand and peered between my spread fingers at him. “It’s a bag of cats all up in here!”

Tom chuckled. “As it happens, bags full of cats are my speciality,” he teased in a distinctly Loki-ish tone and a sly side-eye.

I stared at the man, wondering just when I’d fallen through the looking glass. I shook my head.

“You’re insane, you know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told,” he said dryly. “Though I must say, usually by people who know me.”

I turned and looked him over. “You’re right. I was out of line. I do apologize.” My lip quirked up. “Unreservedly.”

Tom opened his mouth, snapped it shut and gave me that narrow-eyed look that says ‘naughty, naughty’.

I gave him back a sunny smile.

Tom shook his head. “Oh, you’re going to be trouble…”

My smile widened into a wicked grin. “As long as we’re clear on that, we’ll get along just fine.”

God bless Angel Agent Letitia Jackson. She gave me the distraction from my miseries that I need so badly. Though I do feel a little bit bad for Tom. Not much, mind you. But some. He started it, after all.

Poor boy paid for a first class ticket and got sat next to…whatever the hell I am.

I pulled my oversized navy blue (with a white zipper, thank you very much, backstage Loki!) around to hide my hardening nipples. Because trading banter with Tom freaking Hiddleston might be my wet dream, but I don’t necessarily want him to know that.

Andrew handed out actual menus and took our orders, brought on trays with actual china plates. I was happy to have tortellini, because I’ll eat anything with pasta, cheese and red sauce. It wasn’t bad, either.

Tom had a cobb salad, which I thought was brave, but didn’t look too bad. I guess they really do make more of an effort in first class.

We chatted about foods from different countries. Tom’s face when he described his first encounter with real kimchee in actual South Korea was priceless. Though he tried to say that it wasn’t bad, nobody is that good an actor, not even Tom.


	2. Chapter 2

Somewhere over the Atlantic the plane hit turbulence. One moment we were gliding smoothly along, the incessant drone of the engines always there, but accustomed to, the next, the plane jouncing sharply. 

The plane bumped and shook again, and then the pilot’s voice came on and said tersely, “Flight attendants, take your seats.”

“Shit.” Tom whispered tensely. Looking over at him, I saw that he’d gone pretty pale, Loki pale, his mouth was clenched hard, lips turning white with the pressure.

Andrew sped past us to his jump seat at the front of the cabin, swiftly buckling into his four point harness.

I took Tom’s glass from him, tugging it away gently, mainly so he wouldn’t crush it in his white knuckled grip. I put both our glasses into the handy cupholders as the pilot continued to speak, firmly directing everyone to return to their seats and buckle up, explaining about choppy air for the next ten or fifteen minutes.

The plane dropped and shuddered, and Tom’s hand flew over the console armrest between us and gripped mine. I squeaked in surprise, glancing up at his white face and wide eyes. 

I squeezed his hand hard and shook it to get his attention. Distraction. He needed a distraction…

I had just the story.

I told Tom about the day I’d had. The whole sordid tale came pouring out.

“Yeah, so… When I got home from work today, I found my fiancé fucking my friend. In MY bed.” I told him the rest, about bouncing my vodka off Jean Claude’s ass, and my mad dash for the airport.

Tom blinked, his brow furrowing as what I’d said blew his concentration on his own inner turmoil away. He looked blank for a moment as he made sense of my words, and then winced.

“That’s…wow. Darling, that’s awful.”

The plane jiggled again and he caught his breath. I squeezed his hand.

“I know, right? So listen. This,” I waved my free hand around the shuddering plane, “this is going to all be ok. I’ve already had the most shit day possible. I used up my quota of disaster today, and I’m pretty sure I’ve used up everyone else’s and yours too!” I nodded my head firmly.

“I—“ he cleared his throat as the plane rattled again. “I’m not sure it works quite that way…”

“Yeah, well that’s what I’m going with. You wanna fight me?” I lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

Tom snickered. “I think maybe I’d better not.”

I nodded sagely. “Wise man.”

He turned toward me, his grip on my hand softening. “Do…um” he hesitated, his eyes searching my face, “do you want to talk about it?”

I had the feeling that I needed to tell it as much as he needed to be distracted, so I took a deep breath and launched into my tale of lawyering in London and getting engaged to the biggest French wanker available, complete with as many swears as I could fit in. My friend Gem would have been proud of me. In the end, I was taken aback to find him looking at me with frank admiration.

“So, you were just done, then? You just...walked away, abandoning everything? And now you’re starting anew?”

“Yep.”

“Well. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah well, don’t be. I’m flying home to San Diego, but I don’t actually have a home there any longer. I have no idea where I’m going to lay my head tonight.”

Tom chuckled ruefully. “Welcome to my world.”

“Yeah. Bet you’ve at least got a hotel rez, though. Hey! Look! No more turbulence! Told ya!” I crowed.

Tom shook his head at me, his eyes wide. “You certainly believe in tempting fate, don’t you?”

“Hey, you’re the one who gave your handkerchief to the crying girl! Don’t you know better than to offer your handkerchief to strange women?? You can’t tell me about tempting fate!”

Tom laughed, finally beginning to look relaxed again. Me too, actually. 

“Okay, now you. What was your day like today? I told you mine. Fair is fair!”

“Hmmph,” he snorted. “My day was pretty ordinary, all in all. I went for a run, showered, made myself a bit of breakfast—“

I interrupted, holding a hand up. “Wait. No fair just listing stuff! I threw in all the gory personal details in my story! I want a proper narrative from you! What did you have for breakfast and did you have tea or coffee? Details, man! I want the salacious deets!”

Tom laughed. “Alright, alright! Let’s see…” He screwed up his face adorably, and I had to force myself not to ask him if his mother had never told him that his face could get stuck that way. 

“I had orange juice, two soft boiled eggs and a piece of buttered toast to soak up the yolks.” He caught sight of my face and laughed again. “What?”

I tried to wipe the disgusted look off my face, but I’m sure I failed utterly. “Sorry, but ewww! Runny eggs are so…ewww.” I shuddered. Tom snickered.

“You did ask, darling.” A wicked grin began to spread on his face. “What other foods do you dislike?”

My face scrunched up. “Now, why would you want to know a thing like that?”

He propped his elbow on the arm rest between us and set his chin in his palm, a grin on his lips and his eyes positively twinkling at me. 

“Because I’ve never seen anyone do such an accurate impression of a cat upchucking a hairball when you reacted to my runny eggs, and I have a terrible need to make you do it again!” he teased unmercifully as my face warmed.

“You’re horrible. Right. Well, fried liver smells wonderful, but the texture is the most disgusting thing ever. I hate hot chilis or anything so spicy that it turns my mouth into a furnace. It’s like the taste equivalent of white noise, I lose all the yummy flavors and all that’s left is THE BURNING! Rootbeer— blech!. Turmeric. Stinky- feet cheese… And cilantro tastes like soap! Now you have to tell me your hate foods.”

Tom’s face scrunched up, one eye squinted shut, his lips pursed and twisted to the side, and the other eye apparently trying to see into the back of his brain. It was adorable and I had to pinch myself to stop from telling him so, or laughing at him.

“Well… I agree with you about very spicy peppers. I learned my lesson about habaneros and jalapeños! Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, kimchee, fermented shark, and um, rhubarb.”

“Rhubarb? How could you not like rhubarb?” I shook my head. “Brits are weird.”

Tom snickered and countered with Redeye Gravy. “I mean really, darling, who puts coffee flavored gravy on ham? Now that’s truly bizarre! And why in god’s name would anyone put carrots, raisins and mayonnaise together and call it salad??” He shuddered.

I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll give you that. But…fermented shark?”

He chuckled. “One of the hazards of filming in far flung lands is that the locals will insist on having you try some of their most, erm…unique foods. So yeah, Iceland. One can’t turn them down you know, that would be terribly rude. The fermented shark cost me two days filming…” His wincing expression was priceless.

Oh yeah,” I sympathized, “Don’t you just love it when folks give you something awful to try in a public setting?” I shuddered. “That time at my first fancy party, and someone handed me my first taste of caviar? Man, I spit that shit out so fast!”

“You spit out caviar??” Tom stared at me in horror.

“You don’t??” I mirrored his horror back and we both broke up in snickers.

“In my defense, I was only eight!”

“Aww, you poor dear.” More snickers.  
Andrew the flight attendant interrupted us with offers of more drinks, and we each settled back quietly with a glass of wine. After a while, Tom stirred.

“He was an idiot, you know.”

I cocked my head and thought about it for a moment. “No, I’m pretty sure I was the idiot.”

Tom opened his mouth, objections clouding his eyes, but I threw up a hand.

“Seriously, the more I think about my life, the more I wonder what the hell I was doing. I really can’t believe the number of times I just…let Jean Claude have his way, whatever I thought about it.”

“As in?”

“Like… I hated our flat, the great modernist monstrosity! But Jean Claude adored it,” I screwed my face up in distaste. “All that steel and concrete. Black leather sofas and red abstract paintings bleeding all over the walls…” I chewed my lips for a long moment, thinking. “You know… I think maybe I’ve been angry for a long time, and pretending hard not to notice…”

“You don’t strike me as an angry person.” Tom soothed.

“Oh, I’m all kinds of angry. Just not usually all at once like this. I hate that I invested so much in a relationship- two relationships!- with people who could do…that…to me. And it’s my own fault, really. I mean, what have I taught him about me? That I will give way if he’s charming enough or throws a big enough tantrum…”

“He wanted the big modern flat. He wanted the ugly bachelor pad furniture. He wanted the huge, fancy wedding in France, where I don’t speak a word of the language. He wanted the ski vacation, when I don’t ski. He wanted the flash car… And I just went along, however I felt about it, because none of it seemed important enough to fight over.

“And, you know, none of it WAS important enough to fight over, but put all the little shit together, which I fought hard not to do until now, and I wonder how I could have stayed as long as I did.”

“At least you found out who he is before you married him. And before you had children, right?”

My breath drew in sharply. Children. Oh Christ! I started calculating rapidly in my head. Tom tried to interject something, but I threw my hand up in a ‘stop!’ gesture as I frantically added dates in my head. I babbled in panic.

“Oh god…Jean Claude and I discussed the possibility of children. I was surprised that he wanted to start as soon as possible. He’d been full of romantic words about how wonderful I’d be as a mother, and how beautiful and intelligent our children would be bound to be, how gorgeous and sexy I’d be when pregnant with his child...

“But he had nothing at all to say about caring for them, or changing our lives and careers to accommodate children, waving an airy hand with a ‘We’ll figure that out when the time comes, love.’

“God, the more he talked, the less sure I was that I even wanted to have a baby with him, much less the three or four Jean Claude was waxing so poetic about...”

I stared at my hands, twisting around each other and got lost in my thoughts. Fuck. Once more, I had allowed Jean Claude’s enthusiasm and charm to overwhelm my own good sense and concerns, I’d ended up agreeing that we would have kids...eventually.

But given what I’d just experienced, I panicked a bit. Now… I honestly wouldn’t put it past him to have tampered with our birth control. I’d never been able to tolerate hormones, they made me nuts. Like, moody times ten.

So Jean Claude and I were using condoms, much to Jean Claude’s endless bitching. I had wondered if his enthusiasm to start having kids was really more about not wanting to wear condoms anymore, than about any actual desire to be a father.

My voice came out in a tremulous whisper. “...Jean Claude was notorious for getting what he wanted any way he could. Could he have, like, sabotaged the condoms?”

Tom was looking at me with my own horror mirrored back at me. He cleared his throat and tentatively asked me a question.

“Do you think you ought to get a pregnancy test..?” He grimaced sympathetically.

I stared at him. I might have been conflicted about a lot of things in my present circumstances, but I was absofuckinglutely not conflicted about a pregnancy right now. No fucking way!

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s going to the top of my damn to-do list!” I sighed relief. Thank god I’m going to California where I have a right to be treated as a legal adult and make all my own health decisions, even if I am female. “Pregnancy test first, appointment at Planned Parenthood if necessary.” I nodded decisively.

Tom nodded back.

When I started to yawn Tom caught the yawns too, chuckling and checking his watch..

“It’s quite late.” He yawned again. “A nap may be in order, what do you think?”

I yawned again, nodding. “Do you normally sleep through long flights? I hope I didn’t disturb you?” 

“Not at all. Will you be alright?”

“Um, sure?”

“Sleep well, then.”

We both turned our attention to laying back our seats and arranging pillows and blankets. That pod-thing was the best thing ever, allowing me to stretch out instead of spending hours upright and dozing uncomfortably. That always left me groggy, with a stiff neck and a bad attitude.

There was even a heavy privacy curtain that Tom pulled around, blocking the light and gaze of our fellow passengers. Ever since summer camp as a kid, I’d always hated sleeping in a crowd, where I knew that someone would be snickering at me while I drooled into my pillow or snored. Tom had turned this little space into a comfy cocoon for us. Now, if only he sleeps through whatever unfortunate noises or dribbles I might make...

I drifted off smothering a snicker about finally getting to sleep with Tom Hiddleston.

We all woke groaning to the captain talking over the loudspeaker again. It took a second for the seriousness of his tone to register, and in the meanwhile the lights in the cabin all came on.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve been ordered to divert to Denver International.”

A groan went up in the cabin as all the passengers realized that all their plans had just been disrupted. And then the grumbling and occasional swearing started. They all shut their mouths at what came next, though.

“There has apparently been some sort of explosion at LAX, (gasp!) and all flights are being diverted elsewhere. I’m sorry that Denver is as close as we can get you to your destinations, but Agents will be available to you to assist you with rescheduling your travel plans. There is no further information at this time about the cause of the explosion.

“We will be landing at Denver International in approximately an hour and fifteen minutes. Again, we’re very sorry for this unexpected disruption. I will update you on the news from LAX as soon as details become available. Thank you for your patience.”

Tom turned and we stared at each other with identical ‘oh shit, what now’ expressions.

I could hear an anxious murmur reverberating through the cabin as I blinked the last of my sleep induced disorientation away. Tom blew out a noisy breath beside me, his cheeks puffing out with it. He turned to me with a strained laugh in his voice.

“So much for your ‘no more catastrophes’ prediction…”

I lifted a finger. Not *that’* finger! “Hey, whatever happened at LAX, and jeez I hope everyone is ok, it didn’t happen when we were there! This is better than being in the middle of all that! So far, we’re golden!”

Tom snorted. “I suppose you have a point.” he conceded reluctantly. His face screwed up and he rubbed his forehead. He sighed. “It’s a good job that I don’t have to be there right away. I had been planning a fortnight’s holiday before starting my next project.”

“Yeah. I don’t have a deadline either. Nor any actual place to be, which is a thoroughly dismal thought. I don’t even want to think about whatever mayhem is taking place at LAX. I hope everyone is alright, but since they’re diverting flights I expect that is not the case. And that’s another terrible thing that I can’t do anything about, so…”

Tom interrupted my gloomy musings. “Where did you say you were headed? San Diego?” I nodded.

“Legendary booked a small house in Carmel for me for the next two months. I’m filming there. I had planned to rent a car and drive up from LA… I could rent a car in Denver and…we could travel together?

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open like an idiot, confused and astonished as my thoughts splintered into disjointed sentence fragments. He didn’t just… WHAT?? Not really… Is he crazy? Did he just, like… He can’t have.

Tom went pink as I gaped at him. “I’m sorry, Renny. I don’t mean to be forward, and of course I’m not...” Now it was Tom’s turn to stutter. “I’m not expecting… Shit, I’m fucking this up!” His hand combed through his hair several times, making it stand every which way. “But if you want to drive instead of…” He trailed off, his forehead wrinkling and glasses falling down his nose. 

I reached out a placating hand. “Hold on, there! Really, that’s very nice of you, and I appreciate the offer… but I really haven’t got that far in my thinking yet. I’m still stuck on the ‘oh shit, we’re diverting to Denver!’ part. I haven’t even begun to think about how I’m getting to California!”

Tom started to say something, but I talked over him.

“Please don’t think I’m rejecting your very kind offer out of hand, I just…” I trailed off in confusion and took a deep breath. 

“First things first, right? The next step after landing has to be finding somewhere to sleep, because I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to get flights to California for the next few days until things are less chaotic. And it has to be chaotic, because they apparently had to divert all the planes coming into LAX, and all those folks will be fighting to get available seats to the nearest airport to their destinations, or seats whenever they start up flights to LAX again… Which means hotel rooms near the airport in Denver might be scarce…” 

My mind was scrambling to cope with all the new wrinkles in what were already pretty damned unsettled plans anyway.

“Then, the next thing has to be how to get to California. I mean, I was in a tearing hurry to get away, but I guess I’m not in a hurry to get there…”

“So we neither of us is in a big rush? And there are no doubt others who need to get to LA sooner, so it wouldn’t be a bad thing for us to let them have the seats on the next flights..?” I was thinking out loud. It wasn’t til later that I realized that I had kept saying ‘us and we’ without any thought at all. 

He seemed amused watching me work it all out step by step. Hey, I’m a lawyer!

“Right. There’s no reason to go separately, right? We could just as well go together and keep each other company. Road trips aren’t much fun by oneself, I’ve found. Will you join me?”

The concern that had been on his face lifted in favor of a dawning enthusiasm as he spoke, and I could feel my sprits lifting too. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea? I mean, yes, it was all kinds of crazy that he would invite me on a road trip, but it does make a certain kind of sense in this particular situation. I mean, he is quite literally going my way…

“You know, I’ve never been through the American southwest,” he mused. “Outside of filming Thor in New Mexico near Galisteo, and southern California of course, but I didn’t have a chance to be a tourist, really. Have you been? I know it must be a several day trip, though I’ve no idea specifically how long it takes to drive from Denver to San Diego, or Carmel...”

“Well. I don’t know either. A couple of days, at least. And I’ve flown over several times obviously, but I’ve never seen the southwest or the Rocky Mountains from ground level. I know it’s supposed to be spectacular…”

I sat back and looked at him, trying to gauge the issues that come with a long road trip with a man I barely knew. And, it must be said, a celebrity at that! Of course that might not be a problem at all, he’s pretty famous in Britain, but here? People see what they expect to see, and who expects to see a famous actor eating lunch at Denny’s in Bumfuck, Colorado?

Landing:

The air was a bit bumpy circling around for a landing, and I found my hand clutched in a firm grip once again, a tight, wan smile on Tom’s face. I just let my thumb rub soothingly on the back of his hand. The landing itself was smooth as silk, and everyone burst into applause, happy to be safe on the ground.

sleepwalking to room :

God, I was so tired I was stumbling. It took forever to get our baggage and get through customs. I tried to cheer up the cranky baby in front of me, just to shut him up, but I was just as cranky too, and wan’t very successful. The mom seemed grateful though. 

Finding Tom after we both got through customs wasn’t too hard as he stood nearly a head taller than everyone around. 

The little nap on the plane wasn’t nearly enough to counteract a full days work, an emotionally devastating scene, running away from home, an eleven hour flight and ending up in an entirely unfamiliar city. It had all taken a toll, and I was exhausted.

Tom looked fresh as a daisy though, so fuck him.

No, that wasn’t fair. He did look tired, the lines around his mouth were deeper, and his jaw was clenched, but he still managed to dredge up a smile for me..

We had decided that he would deal with renting a car, and I would see about hotel rooms. Preferably close to the airport. It seemed likely that there would be competition for both from fellow stranded travelers. We left the rest of the planning for tomorrow, after we had a chance to sleep and look at a map.

Hallelujah, there was a Hilton connected directly to the airport concourse, somewhat weirdly called ‘The Whale Tail’. I didn’t want to know. I trailed along behind Tom to the rental counter, on my cell phone with hotel reservations. I managed to score two rooms. 

Tom tried to shove his credit card into my hand, but I pointed him at the car rental counter rather emphatically and turned away, using my own card. If he insists on settling up later we can fight about it then.

Tom was still filling out paperwork when I finished up. I leaned wearily against the nearby wall, fighting to keep my eyes open. I forked over my drivers license when asked and signed my future children away on the dotted line. Actually, I just signed the damn form where Tom told me to, trusting in him not to let the rental contract sell my soul or other appendages. Some lawyer, huh?

Finally, we traipsed alllll the way back to the other end of the main concourse to the hotel entrance. Of course there was a line at the registration desk. I could have wept. By that time Tom had an arm wrapped around my waist and was mostly holding me up. 

He looked behind us, where the line was getting even longer and chewed his lip. He glanced down at my nearly comatose self.

“Renny, what size rooms did you book?” 

“Hmm? Oh, they’re double queens. Sorry, I tried to get a king for you so your feet could sleep in the bed with you, but they were already taken.” I blinked sleepily up at him to see him worrying his lip between his teeth. “What’s up?”

“I’m feeling rather guilty taking up four beds between the two of us…”

I looked around the busy lobby full of tired travelers and understood. There had to be fifteen more people in line behind us, and the clerks looked rather harried. I shrugged.

“As long as I have a flat surface fall on and a bathroom nearby, I don’t really care where I sleep. But you better believe it won’t be pleasant for you if I fall into the toilet in the middle of the night because you left the seat up.” I sounded so tired to my own ears that even I didn’t believe my threat.

Tom smirked and solemnly promised appropriate toilet etiquette. The desk clerk practically fell on his neck with gratitude when he offered to cancel one of our rooms to free it for someone else. At last, at last, we had our keys, and I totally let Tom navigate us to our room.

Leaning heavily against the back of the mirrored interior of the lift (fuck! elevator!), I met Tom’s tired eyes and grumbled, pushing my straggling hair back.

“I look like a zombie. I feel like a zombie…”

“Good thing it’s not the actual zombie apocalypse, then. I’d have to kill you, and then who would I have to share the driving with?”

We both snickered at his feeble joke. To the extent that my brain was working, I was just glad that he hadn’t even tried to bullshit me with some bullshit, pseudo-polite version of ‘you look beautiful’. I didn’t look beautiful, I looked like something the cat ate and vomited on the rug. He definitely earned some brownie points for that…

Tom let us into our room and I staggered over to the closest bed, dumping my stuff on it by way of claim. Tom was dropping his stuff on the other bed with a huge yawn.

I retained just enough sense to dig out the travel toiletries I’d bought in London and offer Tom first shot at the bathroom, but he just grinned and took me by the elbow to guide me to the door in answer.

“Don’t fall asleep in there. If you’re not out in ten, I’m coming in after you!”

I grunted my assent and shut the door in his face. I did all the necessary things, and stripped off my yoga pants. I trudged in to fall onto my bed and was out like a light.

Tom must have shoveled me under the covers sometime after that because I was snuggly warm under them when I woke.


	3. Chapter 3

The next thing I knew was the sound of the hotel door clicking quietly. I sat up quickly and turned on the bedside lamp, squinting at Tom until I recognized him. 

I blinked sleepily at him, his face and neck shiny, wearing a sweat dampened blue tee shirt, running shorts over black compression shorts, breathing deeply, earbuds still in place.

Naturally I thought I was dreaming, because hot, sweaty, Tom was in my room, murmuring apologies for waking me.

For a hot second, I had to remind myself that this was Real Life, and Actual Tom, not the Character Tom, that I sometimes write in my stories.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he said quietly, reaching down to yank off his left trainer. (Sneaker. Whatever, dammit!)

“I’m going to shower. You can go back to sleep if you like.” He stopped to rummage through his bag for clean clothes, and headed for the bath. 

He popped his head back through the door with a grin. “But it’s a glorious day out there…” he trailed off suggestively and pulled the door shut with a snap. Oh, cheerful, morning person Tom…

I groaned, hoping that he wouldn’t be long, because now I was awake and so was my bladder. I distracted myself contemplating the bizarre fact that Tom Hiddleston is somehow showering in my hotel room. Or our hotel room. And apparently singing what I think was “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” in the shower.

Next thing, Tom was standing in the doorway with a towel slung around his hips, rubbing another towel over his long, dripping hair.

“I thought I might offer you a chance to use the facilities before I shave.” Tom gestured a broad invitation, waving into the bathroom behind him. “I left you a little something on the vanity…” He called after me as I scrambled for the bathroom

I admired his ability to deliver that line without any hint that he was in the least embarrassed to be obliquely discussing the bodily functions of a near stranger, and do it while only wearing a towel. I wouldn’t have had any clue, if I hadn’t seen his ears pink. His eyes didn’t even shift from mine.

“Oh, thank god!” I burst out, fleeing into the bathroom, barely remembering to push the door shut before plopping onto the toilet and slumping in relief as my bladder quit shouting at me. 

Then I saw the pregnancy test sitting prominently on the vanity and squeaked. I barely managed to hold some back, grabbing the plastic wrapped drinking cup next to the sink and shoving it between my legs, pissing all over it, and my hand in the process, but managing to capture enough for the test.

When I was finished, I tore open the box and quickly read through the instructions, peeling back the plastic covering on the pee stick and dipping it. I set it on the vanity and sat there shaking for the longest fucking three minutes of my life.

At last I reached out a trembling hand and read the result, leaping from my seat.

I stood, biting my lips to keep my triumphant shout behind my teeth, and not scare the bejeebers out of Tom by screaming my lungs out in the bathroom. Though I did punch the air, and maybe I danced a little happy dance. 

NOT PREGNANT! NOT!

I got control of myself while I cleaned up the pee splatters everywhere from my hand shaking so hard as I peed in the cup and dipped the stick. I nerved myself to walk out nonchalantly, and opened the door to find Tom leaning, as if casually, against the wall with his arms folded across his bare chest.

“Well?”

All my cool flew out the window in an instant, and I flung myself at him and squeezed him hard. I damn near squealed, “NOT! PREGNANT!”

His genuine happiness for me came through in his delighted laugh and in a rocking, rollicking hug, both arms around me and squeezing tightly. I was laughing like a loon, and I didn’t want to stop. Tom danced me around the room, not stopping until we hit the little cafe table and nearly knocked it over.

As we disentangled Tom grabbed for his towel, and I threw caution to the winds.

“Why are you going to shave, anyway? You’re on holiday, um vacation, aren’t you? Who bothers to shave while on vacation? You look fine.” (And he really, really did)

He grinned and rubbed a hand over his face, yesterdays’ beard scruff rasping loudly over his palm.

“Oh, I look fine, do I? Well, then. Since Madam approves...” His eyes danced teasing mischief at me before he stepped back into the bathroom to dress.

I scurried over to put my yoga pants on, grimacing a little at still wearing yesterday’s clothes. That’s another problem to deal with ASAP. I decided to save the shower until I had clean clothes to put on after.

Tom popped back into the room, fully dressed —boo!—and unshaven —yay!— to put his shaving kit and running clothes into his bag. “I called breakfast in to room service while you were in there. It should be here soon.” he offered.

“Oh good! I’m so hungry, I could eat a, um... rhinoceros!”

“Well, I don’t know how you would want that cooked, so I ordered a ham and cheese omelette for you, instead. I hope that is acceptable?” Tom deadpanned.

“Perfectly, sir! Thank you.” I nodded as regally as I could manage while trying not to giggle. “You can thank me for not using the whole, unedited rhinoceros expression after you’ve eaten!”

“What’s the unedited version?”

“Later.” I shook my head with what I hoped was a mysterious smile.

Tom lifted a doubtful eyebrow at me and hmm’d. If my insides tumbled at Loki giving me that considering look, it’s nobody’s business but mine.

He sat down at his computer on the cafe table, reminding me that I needed to get started on my to-do list, so I fetched my own laptop and sat across from him at the small table. 

Apparently Tom had remembered to charge all our devices while I was passed out with jet lag. Good man. 

I checked the time. Not quite end of business London time. I needed to send them a proper resignation, effective immediately. And my excuse was going to be a vaguely worded 'urgent family matters that require my immediate return to the states’. I quickly fired off an email to my boss. I’ll send a more formal letter in the mail later.

There was a rap on the door and Tom went to let the room service in. I scrambled for my wallet, but clever Tom already had a tip in hand.

I guess that’s another discussion we’ll need to have relatively soon. I don’t want him to be responsible for all my expenses. He’s not my boyfriend. Not that Jean Claude ever quibbled about splitting expenses with me… Ugh. No comparing Tom to Jean Claude, daft cow! ...Huh. There really isn’t a similar American expression for ‘daft cow’. Maybe ‘stupid bitch’? But that seems kind of harsh...

But first things first. Tom set the dishes out, and we laughed at his belly grumbling loudly while he did. As we ate, we chatted about a few of the things we needed to do separately and together before we could begin ‘Tom and Renny’s Excellent Adventure’ as Tom put it. You could just hear the capital letters. 

“I need to do some shopping this morning,” I said and set my fork down, picking up my coffee and sighing wistfully. “Clean clothes are non negotiable, and I want a shower after that.”

“Right. Good idea. You could go see what they have on the main concourse, you wouldn’t need to go through security for that. Or, if you don’t fancy it, we could stop in the city before we head up into the mountains…”

“I think I’ll have a quick look-see around the airport shops first. But I refuse to turn into a billboard for I heart Colorado, or whatever! If I can’t find any non-logo’d clothing here, I’m going to want to find a Target or something. I don’t need anything fancy, but a couple changes of clothes for the road would be nice… We might want to consider the merits of stopping at a grocery store for road trip supplies, water, maybe a cooler with ice and drinks?”

“That sounds like a good idea. Um, I have some emails that I should attend to, and I need to call my agency to see if they’ve bollixed my schedule because of delays at LAX. And I need to call some family and friends so they don’t worry.”

He paused and looked at me thoughtfully. “You should call your family too. Or a friend. Do you...” he asked hesitantly, “have a friend who won’t..?”

“Freak out? Yeah. I’ll call my friend Gem. We’ve known each other forever. She won’t rat you out to the tabloids, I promise.”

“Okay. If you trust her, then I will too. I’ll trade information with you and give you Luke’s number. He’s the friend I’m going to call. If that’s alright?”

“Of course. You do what you need to do, and I will too.” We nodded at each other in harmony.

As we finished our meal I nerved up to start the discussion that could derail the whole Excellent Adventure thing before it even got on the road, in a totally un-gnarly way, dude. I sat back and picked up my coffee, feigning calm.

“So. I have a confession to make. I can’t in good conscience withhold my secret vice, as it tangentially involves you.”

Tom very carefully closed his laptop and reached for his tea. He sank back in his chair, looking steadily at me over his cup.

“Go on.”

“I write fanfic for fun. And yes, your characters frequently feature in my stories.” Boom. I laid it out with no fluff to soften the blow.

Tom winced. 

I wanted to rush in and explain, but I was dying to know what his reaction was. I decided to let him take the lead on this, and forced myself not to squirm. I waited. He waited. 

The suspense was going to kill me. I was certain he was trying to figure out a polite way to tell me he wouldn’t drive to to the next block with the likes of me, never mind spend four or five days trapped in a car with a damn fanfic writer. Finally, I cleared my throat, put on my lawyer face, and took the bull by the horns.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Tom leaned forward to set his tea cup on the table very deliberately, before sitting back and regarding me, a fingertip gliding over his lower lip thoughtfully.

“Yes, actually. Are you any good?”

I laughed out loud, not having anticipated that question at all! I had seriously expected him to…fuck, I didn’t even know. Demand what gave me the right to just make up shit about him? Or lecture me about how fanfic isn’t exactly Shakespeare? Making a self assessment of my writing skills was not what I’d expected!

“I don’t…know? I enjoy it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m any good at it... Although, I do think enjoying writing has to be the first requirement to actually write well, yes? But that’s really a question best answered by my readers, don’t you think?”

I mean, it’s not like I was going to flip my hair and claim to be better than She Who Shall Not Be Named. But I’m not gonna go with false modesty either. I know for sure I’m better than some, and not as good as others.

“I suppose so.” He was still regarding me with that terrifying, thoughtful expression, and it suddenly dawned on me that here was a man whose very job entailed reading other people’s stories and considering whether he wanted to portray that story to an audience. I wanted to cringe. I did blush.

“May I read one of your stories?”

Now I groaned and covered my face with both hands. “Oh god.” I muttered between my fingers. Never, not once in my life had I ever considered the possibility that he would actually read one of my stories, and oh god. I could hardly tell him no, could I? Ohshitohshitohshit... 

I pulled my shit together and sat up straight, just like a grown up adult who has done nothing wrong.

“I suppose so. Now?” I tried not to give voice to the enormous snakes currently writhing in my stomach. Vomiting might have been a possibility, and I desperately hoped I didn’t look as sick as I felt. I hung onto my lawyer face with all my might. 

Tom idly scratched his chin as he observed me, fingers rasping loudly against yesterday’s stubble in the silence.

“Certainly. No time like the present.” 

I rose to get my tablet, brought up Ao3 —I wasn’t letting him near my Tumblr!— cued up my Crimson Peak fic and handed my device, along with the shreds of my dignity and respectability, over to him.

I could have just sent him the link, but I was clinging to the forlorn hope that he might forget to take note of it from my tablet...

Tom took my tablet with a polite “Thank you”. He glanced at the header and stats and his eyebrows rose. “Over twenty thousand hits. That’s rather a lot. And loads of kudos as well, I see.”

“YesthankyouI’lljustgetonwithmyerrands.” I had a sudden and desperate burning need to be elsewhere while he read my story. I gulped a breath and forced myself to stop hyperventilating and slow the fuck down. 

“I’ll…be back in an hour or so. Enjoy. I hope.” I muttered.

I shouldered my bag and was two steps from the door, seconds from a clean escape, when he called out. “Wait.” I stopped in my tracks and turned.

“My friend Luke’s cell number, and my identification numbers.” He extended a piece of paper to me, which I took and tucked into my bag. “And you said you’d tell me the unedited version of your ‘rhinoceros expression’.” Tom was grinning expectantly.

I smothered a laugh of relief. Said relief making me silly. I took a reciter’s stance, standing tall and clasping my hands, fingers curled onto each other at chest level. Staring over his head at the window behind him, I recited.

“Ahem. The full expression is ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat the ass out of a rhinoceros.” I declaimed solemnly.

Tom froze for a second, his eyes widening, and mouth opening in a little ‘o’, before he threw his head back and laughed heartily. My snickers joined his and all the tension magically left my body.

“O-kay. On that note —and thank you for letting me deliver the best parting line in the history of ever— I’m out. See you soon.” 

After closing the door behind me I leaned back against it, gathering my cool. It shouldn’t matter to me what he thinks of my writing. I don’t write it for him. But it kinda does matter. A lot. Way more than I wanted to admit.

I’d envisioned having to explain that I wasn’t writing about him, I was writing about his *characters*, filling plot holes or revising endings to suit myself. Sometimes giving his characters new adventures. And sometimes the character is named ‘Tom Hiddleston’.

Of course that’s why I gave him my Crimson Peak story, not one of my  
Actor!Tom stories. It suddenly occurred to me that, having met the real life Tom, I might have to stick to writing stories about his film or stage characters. It would be too weird writing about ‘him’ now that I’ve met IRL Tom.

I yanked my phone out of my bag and dialed my best friend, by the time I’d gotten three steps down the hall way. She picked up on the second ring with a shout. God, it’s nice to hear my name said with joy by someone who does love me best of all.

“Renny! Girl, it’s been ages!”

I laughed. “I know, right? It’s been what? A whole two weeks?”

I pictured her, greeny-gray eyes that changed color according to her mood, a riot of curly blonde hair, and a sweet, round, dimpled face. My best friend since high school, she always talks in enthusiastic exclamation points.

“It’s always too long! Oh my god, let me tell you what’s happening! I have a showing! At Palas Athena!”

“Oh wow! Oh my god! That’s great! When?” 

Palas Athena is a prestigious womens’ art gallery in San Diego. It was an enormous coup to get a showing there, and I was thrilled for my friend. I let her burble on about her photography showing while I walked down the hallway and took the lift (shit! Elevator!) down to the lobby, my phone at my ear, murmuring questions and encouragement. It was great to hear my friend so happy. Eventually she wound down though.

“Now! Tell me you’ve finally left french Antonio Banderas and you’re on your way home!”

“Okay.” 

“Okay, what?”

“I’ve left french Antonio Banderas and I’m on my way home.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you shitting me?!” she shrieked. “Really?! Because I’m gonna get an uber, head out to the airport in my jammies, get on a plane to London and beat your skinny ass if you’re fucking with me!!”

I sat in one of the club chairs in the deserted lobby. The only other person in the room was the hotel manager behind the desk, way across the enormous lobby.

“My ass is not skinny, and I’m not joking! I left Jean Claude. I left everything. It’s been a day...” I sighed and rubbed the little tension lines between my eyes, staring at the weirdly patterned carpet.

“Oh honey... You better tell me about it then.” Her voice lacked any exuberant exclamation points this time, for which I was grateful.

I told her about finding Jean Claude in MY BED fucking Marian, and listened to her swear a blue streak. Gem is one of the most imaginative and creative cursers it’s ever been my pleasure to know, and just hearing her break out her Shakespearean swears on my behalf healed my heart a little. 

Plus also, I don’t really have any problem at all with Jean Claude waking up with the fleas of a thousand camels infesting his crotch, either. Nor Marian’s.

Then I told her about the rest of my day, Letitia the Wonder Agent, my upgrade to first class, my sympathetic seat mate, and being diverted to Denver.

“Damn girl.” She sounded stunned.

“So wait, it gets worse. Or better. I’m not sure. You’re my safety call.”

“I’m your what,” she asked, darkly ominous.

“My safety call. I need to let someone know that I’m going on a road trip to California with the guy who was my seat mate. Now, wait! Before you freak out too much, it was his suggestion that we exchange identifying information and that I call you!”

“Seriously?? You hardly know this guy and you’re going to drive from Colorado to California with him? Girl, are you nuts? Do you know how much deserted, empty countryside there is between there and here in which to hide a body??”

“Well no, not exactly. But I expect there’s a lot. That’s why I’m calling you, Gem.” I said patiently. “I figure it’s going to take four or five days to drive out there. Neither of us has ever driven through the southwest, and all the flights going to California are full because of the shutdown at LAX, so we decided, why not share the driving and have someone along to talk to?”

“Renny..! I can’t believe you’re doing this! Are you sure you’re alright? You never do spontaneous shit like this! Who is this guy anyway?! Wait, I’m going to get a pen and paper. I want all his information, name, driver’s license number, shoe size...”

“Okay. Maybe you oughta get a stiff drink while you’re up.” 

“Renny, for fucks sake, it’s only...” I could hear her checking the time on her phone. “10:43 am!”

“Yeah. Get the drink, Gem.”

I took a deep breath, my eyes tracing over the weird pattern on the carpet. Really, who thought navy blue and bright orange swirled into a hallucinogenic pattern of horse heads was a good idea?? 

I heard scrabbling noises as she got the pen and paper from her junk drawer in the kitchen. Then I heard the squeak of the cabinet door where she keeps her booze, and the clink of a bottle against a glass. 

“...Maybe you should sit down, too.”

“Renn-nee...” she said my name plaintively. “You’re freaking me out..!” I heard her take a drink and breathe it out heavily. She must have chosen the good scotch.

“Okay. Hit me.”

“Okay. I need you to swear, -pinky swear!- that you’ll keep it to yourself, right?”

“Renn-neee... I swear, okay?” she wailed. 

“He’s Tom Hiddleston.”

Dead silence.

More dead silence.

“Renny, are you sure you’re alright? You didn’t hit your head or anything, right?”

“Gem, I promise you I’m alright! I’m not drunk and I’m not crazy, and I’m about to go on a road trip to California with Tom Hiddleston.”

I could hear her taking another drink of her scotch, her glass rattling against her teeth. She breathed out heavily.

“Okay... Okay. I believe you.” She breathed out again. “I still want his information. And I want to hear from you EVERY DAY, do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I said meekly. I read out the passport number that he had handed me. And the number of Luke Windsor, his own safety call. Gem gasped, and I could hear her normal enthusiastic resilience coming back in the excited squeeing sound she made. It was like I’d handed her the holy grail. Luke Windor’s personal phone number! And then I heard a gasp.

“Does he know?? Oh my god, did you tell him?” I knew instantly, exactly what she was talking about.

“Of course I did! Can you imagine how betrayed he’d feel if I didn’t tell him that I sometimes write fanfic? No, I couldn’t withold that.” I gripped my phone harder, pressing it almost painfully to my ear and breathing out a shaking breath and lowering my voice even further.

“As a matter of fact, he’s in the room reading my Crimson Peak fic right now.  
H-he wanted to know if I was any good!” I felt my face turning hot. I’m so glad I decided to leave the room before he started to read. Gem let out a squeal that nearly deafened me.

“Oh! My! God! Are you alright?”

I laughed hollowly. “Sure. My favorite fantasy fuck is, in actual real life, reading one of my stories with all the lurid, explicit sex scenes left in!” I exhaled shakily again. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

She laughed a little hysterically. “Right! You’re fine! I’m fine! Everything’s fine! Just another boring old day in the life, right?! Jezus, Renny...”

“So, I’ve got to go, Gem. Gotta run into the airport and see if I can pick up some clean clothes. I left everything in London and I have nothing but what’s on my back to wear.”

“Alright. But you better call me every day, I wanna hear all the details!”

“Gem... You pinky-swore...”

“I know, I know! I won’t breathe a word. Unless you miss your call in. Then I’m gonna call the Queen of fucking England, and I’m gonna be pissed! So you better call! Call before 8 pm my time, okay?”

“Okay, I will. Love you. Wish me luck.”

Gem burst into laughter. “You scored a cross country trip with Tom Hiddleston and you want MORE luck?? You already have all the luck! I hate you! Okay, I don’t hate you. But still! Right, I love you, too. Have a good trip and CALL ME!! Bye!”

I hung up with her laughter ringing in my ear, feeling a thousand times better, as I always do whenever we talk.

I checked the time and scrambled up. I needed to get my shopping done!


	4. Chapter 4

I walked quickly back into the airport and found what I needed almost immediately. I think this modern thing about having an upscale shopping mall in an airport is kinda peculiar. I can’t imagine anyone schlepping out to the airport for a shopping spree on a normal day, but there was no doubt it was working out for me today.

I didn’t need much, but I definitely wanted something clean to wear every day. And maybe something a little smarter (sigh. Fancier) . Fortunately I found a pair of soft, cotton blend, steel blue cargo shorts that somehow were comfortable and did really good things for my ass. Which I would not have believed was in cargo shorts repertoire! I found a couple of tank tops in olive green and a blue one that was slightly darker than the shorts that I could layer, and that went well with my complexion.

I’m medium. Medium height, medium build, medium bust, so it was pretty easy to find clothes that fit fairly well. My best features are the near-black wavy hair and electric blue eyes framed by dark lashes that I’d inherited from my dad. The rest is a pale combination of Mom and Dad. Except the damn freckles over my nose and cheeks. Thanks, Mom.

I also found a couple pair of Capri length leggings, one in black and one in a similar blue to the shorts. And a really cute chiffon, floral blue and green floaty skirt that I could wear with the capris and tanks. Paired with a light, sage green sweater that was just right for cooler evenings, I would look ok if we went for dinner someplace nicer than Chipotle.

It was good to wander around and be distracted in the airport, gawking up at the multiple canvas, tent-like peaks of the airport roof, watching the tourists and travelers rushing around, instead of having to watch him read my work and giving myself an anxiety attack. 

Random little birds had found their way inside the enormously high tented ceiling, and the tourists seemed happy to see they got fed. That one thing made me hopeful for the human race. I bought a plain, unsalted pretzel and scattered crumbs on some of the planters, with good wishes for the little things.

I was still going to have to stop somewhere in the city to get new knickers. (grr…underpants!) because somehow buying new undies in the airport seemed a little... skeevy? And I didn’t want to examine that reasoning too closely!

I was heading back to the hotel when my eye caught on a display of hats. That’s what I needed, a hat to shade my face so my freckles didn’t take over my face. And they had the perfect hat, a straw colored hat of paper fiber that was easily foldable for travel. And it had a green silk rose pinned to the brim that was just perfect. I tried it on. I needed this hat.

When I let myself back into the room, Tom was still reading. I guess that was a good sign? At least he hadn’t given up and thrown my tablet in the bin! (Fuck! Trash!)

He poured himself another cup of coffee from the carafe as I watched, not taking his eyes from the screen of my tablet as he did so. That...must be a good sign, right?I set my packages down on the bed and cleared my throat.

“Shhh!” He scrolled the page up and kept reading. 

That must be a good sign too, right? Grimacing to myself, I took my packages into the bathroom and started the shower. I washed my hair with the hotel stuff, and used the hotel hair dryer, taking my sweet time.

I changed into my new cargo shorts and layered tank tops. I put my hair up in a messy bun. I fished out some tinted lip balm and mascara from the bottom of my purse and put those on. I peed and washed my hands. I packed yesterday’s clothes into the small turquoise rucksack (backpack!) I’d bought in lieu of a suitcase. And then I didn’t have any other things to do in there.

I hadn’t expected him to read the whole damn story in an hour. It was novella length after all! But now what?

I let myself out of the bathroom, carrying my backpack and new hat, setting the pack on the bed and carefully setting the hat on top, before taking my seat across from him, folding my arms and staring at him.

After another moment or two, when he had finished reading the paragraph, or chapter, or just figured this was a good place to stop, Tom sighed and carefully set my tablet down on the table, looking at it thoughtfully. He pushed his glasses up to the top of his head and rubbed his eyes before looking at me.

I concentrated on looking cool and unruffled, while the silence in the room seemed to congeal the longer Tom took to gather his thoughts.

“You’re quite good.”

My stomach swooped and I swallowed it back down, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you. But?”

“But nothing, Renny.” He took his glasses off, chewing the stem gently, his focus obviously still caught up in Sir Thomas’s story. He lifted his eyes and I saw into them, his interest and careful deliberation plain.

“You tightened the story, played up the gothic romance, and got rid of the extraneous plot, while making the whole thing subtly creepy. It’s Jane Austen meets Jane Eyre... You’ve created an air of tension and suspense without the obvious ghosties and ghoulies. Your prose is suitably Victorian, and you captured the social mores of the period. Your characters move harmoniously through the time period, interacting and speaking appropriately for the late Victorian era. It’s clearly well researched and grounded in the era’s social restraints, and your characters aren’t anachronisms, speaking or behaving like modern people. I think you’ve made it all much more interesting, and I wish we could have filmed this,” he leaned forward and tapped my tablet, “instead.”

All the air had magically evaporated from my lungs as I listened to his praise for my work and it slowly seeped into my thick skull that he wasn’t tearing it down or dismissing it out of hand. When my chest heaved for oxygen I started breathing again. It took another minute to find my voice as Tom waited for my response.

“I— Thank you. I wasn’t expecting such a thorough assessment or critique of my work, but… thank you. “ I squinted at him. “What I really need to know, the reason that I brought all this up to begin with is… Do you still want to drive across country with me? Are we still on for this road trip? I promise that I won’t be writing about it, or hinting in any way about it on social media…”

“Oh, of course we’re still on!” His eyes twinkled. “Now, if you’d been a bad writer…” he trailed off suggestively.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but what happens when you get to the ending and you don’t like it? You aren’t going to strand me in West Bumfuck, or drop me off a steep mountainside, are you?”

“Absolutely not!” Tom grinned and placed his spread hand sincerely over his heart. “I do solemnly pledge not to abandon you in the wilderness for any reason whatsoever, not withstanding a bad conclusion to your story.”

I sat back and regarded him, my eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. I swallowed, trying to blink them away. I tried to figure out what was causing my tears, and realized that it was…anxiety? Because I was really gonna do this thing. Even talking with Gem, the reality hadn’t quite sunk in.

Of course I didn’t truly think Tom would go all Mr. Hyde, kill me and leave me for the bears… But he was, any way I looked at it, a stranger after all. And no woman in the history of ever can ever be entirely, completely, absolutely sure that a man won’t hurt her. And I would, without a doubt, be vulnerable, at his mercy, and nowhere to run. I shivered. I know without asking what my mother would say about this proposed trip.

Tom suddenly seemed to understand and his expression went from playful to gentle in a moment. He sat forward and turned his hand up on the table in invitation, waiting to see if I would take it.

When I slid my cold hand tentatively into his warm palm he smiled faintly.

“Renny, you will be safe with me. I won’t abandon you, betray you, or hurt you... I recognize that letting me read your work was an extraordinary gesture of unearned trust, and I feel compelled to extend that trust back to you. I trust you. You said you wouldn’t write about this,” he waved a hand around the room, “or out me on social media, and I believe you. I like you, and I think you would be an entertaining and interesting boon companion on this Excellent Adventure. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

I blinked at him. I knew that he was sincere, however he had phrased his invitation. I believed him too. I nodded.

“Yes, please and thank you.”

Tom’s face broke into a huge, happy grin. He pulled me up from my chair and wrapped me in a warm hug. As my arms slid around his waist in return, for the first time in two days, I felt like I was standing on stable ground. Safe.

He looked down at me in the circle of his arms with yet another smile, this one warm and kind. “Friends?”

I returned his smile and pushed away. “Yes, okay. Friends.” Then I narrowed my eyes at him. “But you better not be dissing my Sir Thomas…”

Tom stood tall and haughty, looking down his long nose at me. “As long as you don’t diss my Sir Thomas!”

I snickered. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to finish my story to find out!” I stuck my tongue out at him and he surprised me into a squeal by lunging at me and making to snatch the end of my tongue.

I turned, laughing, and ran around to the other side of the bed, taunting him.

Sticking his tongue out at me and winking, he strolled into the bathroom, snapping the door shut.

I guess I’m going on a road trip with a giant six year old. But since I’m essentially a six year old at heart too, it’ll probably be okay.

Before we checked out of the ‘Whale Tail’ we discussed a shopping list for the road. We definitely needed a cooler, ice and drinks for the car. 

I haven’t personally experienced the terrain through which we’ll be driving, but I know enough to bring extra water into the desert. Tom was enthusiastically imagining things we should have ‘just in case’.

“Maybe we should get a snake-bite kit?” Tom stood behind my shoulder, looking over it at the shopping list I was writing. “You never know. Things could happen…”

“Tom.” I turned my head up and looked at him. “We won’t need a snake bite kit.”

“How do you know? There are definitely poisonous snakes in the southwestern US.”

“Tom, if you’re dumb enough to get out of the car in snake infested territory, I will bite you myself!”

Tom snickered and opened his mouth, probably for a smart ass comeback. I put my finger up.

“And you can quit grinning, it won’t be in a good way! At all!”

“However, you can put a paper map on the list, I’m not depending on cell service in the desert. And a first aid kit. I wouldn’t want you to bleed to death from a paper cut. But I promise to kiss your boo-boo!”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” The Loki smirk was back.

I shook my head. Oh my god, it hit me again, I’m going on a road trip with an overgrown (waay overgrown!) dirty minded, six year old! A gorgeous, overgrown, dirty minded, six year old…

Despite my misgivings that he would equip us with all the gear we could possibly need for being shipwrecked in a hurricane, I let Tom be in charge of the shopping list, and just concentrated on my own requirements.

Me, I just want clean underwear. No lace, thongs, or peek-a-boo required. I mean, I’m not talking about a Playtex 18 hour bra with double armor plating like your grandma’s, but. If it was any other guy, I’d probably just say fuck it and go braless. It would be way easier and more comfortable. But not Tom. I am not going to do anything that might make him think I’m deliberately trying to entice him. No fucking way.

Comfortable, functional, practical underpants and bras, that’s the ticket! A pair of jeans and a couple tee shirts. Maybe some Keds. Any department store, Sears, Macy’s or Tar-jay would do, whichever is closest to our route through the city.

A tee shirt to sleep in and some fuzzy socks. Oh, and a swim suit, because I’m hoping that there will be a pool available at whatever places we stay overnight. 

Swimming is what I do for relaxation and exercise, and I get the feeling that after hours in a car with Tom every day, I’m going to Need. To. Cool. Down.

Tom likes to start his days with a run. I like to end my days with a swim.

And I guess if he lets his six year old too far out of the bag, I can always threaten to take his biscuits (cookies, dammit!) away.

Fuck, who am I kidding? He can have all the damn cookies he wants.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed something to distract myself from election night tension, so here ya go! I hope it gives you some relief as well!  
> Also, Der Alpen Rose is a real place in Vail. I've eaten there and the food is AMAZING!

The scenery through the mountains was spectacular. We both spent the first hour of the drive ooh-ing and ah-ing and pointing things out to each other. Tom quickly got used to my bad habit of seeing something interesting and squealing “Oh, look!” while pointing wildly. And he wasn’t even rude abut it.

I nearly gave myself neck strain from craning my head to see spruce and pine covered mountainsides and hawks gliding on the updrafts, and the river flowing below the highway, sparkling glints of refracted sunlight alongside us for miles and miles…

But eventually we both settled comfortably into the rhythm of the road and just drove companionably along, listening to each other’s playlists, sometimes singing along, sometimes not.

He has way more country music in his phone than I do. Typical Brit. He laughed and gamely sang along when I insisted that he had to pay for making me listen to his country music by listening to my soundtrack of Grease. 

He was surprised that I knew all the Hank Williams tunes and sang with him— though I refused to attempt the yodeling parts.

Then he wanted to teach me. So, that was…interesting. I still can’t yodel, but I’ve got images of Tom in my head that can never be unseen. Or unheard.

Eventually I found myself contemplating him as he drove along, competently concentrating on the twists and turns, ups and downs, of this stretch of road. 

Tom had proved to be more than a sympathetic listener, he was empathetic. He seemed to intuitively understand my mental state, with this major upheaval of my life. He understood my explanation of my relationship with Jean Claude, and most importantly, applauded and supported my impulsive complete break with him and my life in London.

When I’d left London, I was running on pure rage and mindless adrenalin. Tom somehow knew that the rage would wear out, and gently accepted that my emotions would cycle through various stages of grief, betrayal, self-doubt, guilt and embarrassment. And that it was a roulette wheel choice which emotion would come up at any point.

Tom clearly didn’t judge me, or my impulsive fuck off from my fiancé and my life in London. He did have opinions about Jean Claude’s character, and wasn’t shy about voicing them, but for me he only had support and commiseration. And since I had zero desire to defend Jean Claude, it was all good!

Talking about his own troubles…he made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this chaotic world. It really helped me deal with my own shit. I didn’t feel ‘stuck’ in grief or pain. I was angry, so angry, but Tom was like, ‘Of course you’re angry!’ As if my actions, reactions and emotions were reasonable and justified. And not an inconvenience to him. 

He never once asked me what I did wrong, nor even hinted that I could have stayed and tried harder. He seemed genuinely glad that I got myself out before it was too late. And he refused to let me blame myself or feel like a failure, and isn’t that amazing?

Tom has been incredibly kind to me for no other reason than he recognized that I a fellow human who needed a little kindness.

I watched him as he flipped the blinker on and smoothly changed lanes around a slow moving lorry (Fuck! Truck! Lol!). I admired his competence and confidence, driving on the wrong side of the road for him. I cocked my head and blurted what came to mind.

“You’re nice man. Thank you, Tom.”

He glanced over at me with a sudden grin. “Why, thankee ma’am! But I didn’t do—” he drawled, dead on Hank Williams accent and all.

I put a finger up. “Except that. Take the compliment and drop the ‘aww shucks’, Thomas. I’m serious. You’re a nice man, get over it.”

Tom went faintly pink and tongue-tied, his eyelashes sweeping down bashfully. I burst into laughter. 

“Dear god, I made Tom Hiddleston blush! Damn, I’m good!”

Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the bashful look didn’t entirely dissipate. It was ridiculously adorable.

“You are good, Renny.” Tom said quietly.

“Hmm. Okay, how about we just agree that we’re both pretty awesome? Are you hungry? I could eat.” I picked up the map, hoping I’d changed the subject. But, as I was coming to learn, Tom rarely passes up a good quip.

“No, I’m not hungry, I’m awesome!” He beamed at me.

I sputtered laughter. “Damn, I walked right into that one!”

He reached over and patted my knee. “That’s alright, darling,” he consoled, “You’re still awesome, too.”

I snapped the map open and shook it unnecessarily loudly. 

“Ahem. What’s the next town? I’m awesomely hungry.” I perused the map, finding roughly our position as Tom chuckled.

“Hmm. I could do with a bite.”

“Okay, looks like Vail is about twenty miles that-away.” I pointed straight out the windscreen. (Windshield, fuck!).

“…fuck!”

“What??” Tom looked around, alarmed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud!” I laughed, patting the air in a calming gesture. “I just keep catching myself using British terms instead of American, and I keep correcting myself in my head and I feel like I can’t even speak English anymore!”

His lips twitched, and I could see he was trying hard not to laugh at me.

“Yeah, laugh it up fuzzball!”

And that’s how we spent the next half hour or so pointing out roadside things to each other and having a conversation about them in Wookie.

His accent was better than mine. Of course, he can yodel, so that’s probably why.

Vail was wonderfully quaint, a ridiculously manicured, upscale tourist town with oodles of quaint little boutiques, all with lush, enormous, glorious, flower pots scattered artistically around. It was all terribly, terribly quaint!

We had a late lunch at a terribly quaint German restaurant called, of course, Der Alpen Rose. It was pretty good, actually. Tom, the only one of us who has eaten actual German food in actual Germany later proclaimed it the most authentic German food he’d ever had in America. And he ordered our food from the actual German waitress in German, utterly charming her and making her laugh.

After a little back and forth between the two, she laughed, slapping him playfully on the arm with her order pad, and trundled off chuckling and shaking her head. 

I raised an eyebrow at him as he turned back to me, a grin on his face and his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Now, what was that?”

“She says I’m too skinny and I should eat more.”

I snickered. “And what do you have to say about that?” I grinned. “No, wait! Let me guess. You apologized, right?”

He wrinkled his nose at me. “I said, ‘Es tut mir leid, Mutti.’”

“And that translates as..?”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

A laugh started deep down and kept growing and growing, giggles and guffaws and snorts just racking my body as they tumbled from my mouth. I covered my eyes because I couldn’t stop looking at Tom and he kept setting me off again with his own abandoned laughter. 

Lying limply back in his chair with his head thrown back, he laughed his baritone laugh until we both slowed down to a few final snickers and hiccups.

Amazing how cathartic a good belly laugh is. Though I could tell that my ribs were going to be aching for awhile. I hadn’t had a lot of call to use those muscles lately. 

I felt a little better about that when Tom sat up, holding his ribs and rubbing a stitch in his side. Guess I wasn’t the only one who needed a good laughing fit.

We ate our lunch on the outdoor patio, shaded from the sun and surrounded by planter boxes hanging from the railings around the brick patio, filled with masses of traditional German ivy geraniums of glorious reds and eye searing pinks spilling over the railings. 

A soft breeze played around us, stirring errant dark curls on Tom’s head and bringing the scents of the flowers and good German food. My schnitzel was amazing, and we both plowed into our food. Something about the fresh mountain air stimulating our appetites…

We lingered chatting over a last glass of crisp Riesling. At the end of our meal the waitress brought out an enormous piece of Black Forest Cake, dripping in whipped cream and cherries. It was magnificent and my mouth watered.

This time she spoke English as she set the cake down in front of Tom. His eyes were enormous. 

“Eat. It will give you muscles!”

Tom’s face took on that expression of boyish devilry that I was beginning to recognize. He lifted his arm, pushing the short sleeve of his tee shirt further up and flexing his biceps.

“Do you really think so?” He asked innocently. Butter wouldn’t melt in his damn mouth!

The woman stared wordlessly at the bulging muscles for a moment, picked up the cake plate and put it in front of me.

“You’d better have this. I can see you’ll need all your strength to keep up with this one!

I laughed and trotted out my one word of German. “Dankeschoën!”

“Bitte!” She trotted off, laughing over her shoulder at Tom’s pout.

“Mutti likes me better than you!” I teased, sticking my tongue out at him. “You better be nice to me or I won’t share my cake with you!”

We had a laughing time, dueling forks to get at the cake. I quit well before the cake was finished, groaning about my overfull belly and let Tom have the rest. He happily scarfed every bit of that cake, leaving only a smear of chocolate and cherry juice on the plate, while I finished my coffee.

“You’re amazing.” I shook my head in wonderment. “Where the hell do you put it all?”

He groaned. “I’ll be running it off for the next week! No doubt my trainer will be exceedingly annoyed with me when filming starts, and she’ll put me on a strict regimen of chicken breasts and more chicken breasts. So I’m just getting it while I can!”

Tom suggested a stroll through the town to let our meal settle, and I happily agreed. If I sat in the car I’d go right off to sleep after that meal! It was a gorgeous day, the sun golden, and the sky an incredible, cerulean blue. And the occasional quaint puffy white clouds... 

The pedestrian streets (No vehicles allowed on the terribly quaint cobblestone streets!) were lined with massive planters, with a spectacular profusion of blooms; petunia, lobelia, dahlias and many, many more that I couldn’t begin to name. They were everywhere, pots flanking every shop entrance, massive hanging baskets from light poles. Colors shining in the sun and illuminating the shade.

Tom took my hand as we strolled, stopping to look into the occasional shop window and snickering as Tom pointed out another terribly quaint window display. The yarn shop with an actual spinning wheel for making yarn!

We ducked into an art gallery and looked around. We fetched up in front of an enormous landscape of sunset touched mountains with thunderheads piling up over the peaks. An arrangement of spotlights over the painting faded on and off, creating the most incredible sense of movement, wind, and flickering light in the clouds.

I stood mesmerized for a long time. I blinked damp eyes and double checked the corner signature, though I knew very well who had painted it. Wandering over to the gallery agent, I asked for a card, tucking it safely away in my wallet.

After the gallery we passed a book store with actual books. Or rather, I passed the book store. It took me a second to realize that Tom had bolted inside. I followed him in.

I lost Tom for awhile as I wandered the aisles and perused titles. I got lost myself in the fantasy section for a little. It broke my heart not to buy any books, but I don’t have a book shelf to put them on, nor a home to shelter them at the moment. I tried to cheer myself up by remembering the huge number of books stored on my tablet, but of course it’s not the same.

Eventually I found Tom sitting on the floor, long legs folded up and engrossed in a history of Colorado, with about eight other books piled on the floor near his thigh.

He looked up, a pleading look in his shining eyes, and clutching the book to his chest possessively. “I want them. I want them all!” I grinned, reminded of Golum, lovingly stroking his Precious.

I laughed. “So get them all! But you’ll have to carry them all,” I warned, “or buy a pack mule!”

I offered him a hand up and he took it, unfolding himself and stooping to pick up the books. Reluctantly he put six of them back, carefully shelving them in their correct spots and trailing longing fingers down their spines, before sighing heavily and turning away. He ended up with the Colorado history book and a David Weber space opera.

Next I spotted an art supply shop and stopped in front, chewing my lip and debating with myself before Tom took my elbow and tugged me into the shop.

The thing is, taking me into an art supplies store is a bit like setting Augustus Gloop loose in Charlie’s chocolate factory. I wanted to run around touching everything! I wanted to try out all the colors! And fondle all the paint brushes!

Tom coaxed me into buying a good quality sketch pad and some watercolor pencils. He said I had to have them. I’d have something to do, so that he could get a moments’ peace to read, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he saw me drooling over them. Bad form to drool on the merchandise and not buy it, don’t ya know!

I happily clutched my bag of treats as we left the shop, teasing Tom that I was going to spend the next week harassing him to sit still while I sketched him. 

He stopped and squinted at me. “Wait here,” he commanded, and dashed back into the shop, leaving me to wonder what the fuck. Moments later he was back, handing me another bag.

I looked into it and gasped. He’d got me a beautiful set of top-of-the-line, oil based Faber-Castell polychrome pencils. In a decorative tin!

“Tom, I can’t…”

He narrowed blue eyes at me. “Yes, of course you can,” he contradicted. “Whyever not?”

“But they’re so expensive!” A tin of sixty of these babies cost around $200, for pete’s sake!

“Are they good quality? Do your fingers itch to use them?” He looked at me knowingly, brooking no polite lies.

“Well yes, of course. But—“ 

“Then I fail to see the problem, darling. I want you to enjoy them. You’ve left all your old art things in London, right?” I nodded helplessly. I hadn’t had much. I hadn’t had the time to do things solely for my own enjoyment. But I missed them anyway.

“Well, now you have new ones suited to new beginnings. Think of them as birthday present, Renate.”

I started to tear up. Tom moved to wrap his arms around me and give me a hug and a gentle shake. “None of that now.” He handed me his handkerchief and I sniffled into it. At this rate, I was going to have his whole collection balled up and snotty in my pockets by the end of our trip.


End file.
